


Where the Lonely Ones Roam

by MonJoh



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7584520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonJoh/pseuds/MonJoh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgana has a prophetic dream that Arthur will execute Merlin and warns him. (Based on the video by Lthien) Dark!Merlin. Mergana. Angst, death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Lonely Ones Roam

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a video "Where the Lonely Ones Roam" by Lthien currently available on Vimeo.

Morgana’s head turned on her pillow, her long hair spread around her as though she had tossed and turned for some time, her raven-coloured locks dark against the whiteness of the bedclothes. Her hands clenched and her eyes moved wildly back and forth beneath the closed lids but she did not wake. A soft moan was wrenched from her throat.

It was a familiar nightmare: a heap of wood around a pyre, a torch held high like a judgement, and then pain, pain and darkness. But this time the dream was different, it was not Uther Pendragon, the king, her father, who nodded to the executioner; it was her brother, Arthur. Arthur looked on as Aredian, the feared and hated witchfinder, picked up a flaming torch. The prisoner, arms tied behind him where he knelt, silently pleaded with Arthur. Coldly, Arthur gave a nod. A look of triumph lighted the witchfinder’s narrow, black eyes and his thin lips twisted in an evil smile while the prisoner, engulfed now in flames, screamed.

The tormented scream of the dying man, dying a brutal, painful death, echoed in Morgana’s head and her eyes flew open. It had been Merlin’s face, Merlin, bound and looking up imploringly at the prince, then dying in the flames at Arthur’s command.

Morgana stared at the white canopy draped above her bed though all she saw were Arthur’s nod, Aredian’s torch, and Merlin’s mouth opened wide in a dying scream. Her heart was beating madly and her clothes were plastered to her damp body; strands of hair had fallen across her face and stuck to her brow. She took several deep breaths before she reached up to pull the sweat-sticky hair away from her forehead.

The Court Physician had told her, time and time again, her nightmares were only dreams, they should not frighten her so, but she knew, she _knew_ , that sometimes her dreams were real. They were warnings. Her nightmares of burning, the ones where Uther sentenced her to die because of the magic in her veins, where the heat crawled up her legs, higher, bits of flesh falling into the fire, sizzling, while she was alive to feel it, her body consumed slowly and painfully, those nightmares were born of her own fear. But this, this dream had been a warning.

Yet there was nothing she could do, not now in the darkness of night. She could hardly race through the palace corridors to the physician’s chambers and accost Merlin in his bed shouting a warning that came to her in a dream no one believed was real. She would wait until day, find some excuse to speak with her brother’s manservant, and tell him of the vision.

For now she had to go back to sleep so she could appear rested and sane when she told her story. It would do Merlin no good if she was in her nightgown, her hair unbrushed and unbound like a madwoman the way she was when she warned Arthur of the Questing Beast. No one had believed her then, either. She had to sleep now.

She knew she would not sleep.

***

“My lady?” the maidservant asked.

Morgana turned her head on the pillow, knowing her eyes were red and underlined with black. Her maid had tended her long enough to be aware of the many sleepless, nightmare-filled nights so she would ask no questions. As expected, understanding and – maybe – pity filled Gwen’s eyes as Morgana looked at her. Silently, the maid set down the tray of breakfast food and began fussing around, readying her mistress’s clothing.

Morgana turned her gaze back to the lacy, white cloth draped over her bedposts which she had been staring at as the sky beyond her window turned from black to pink to gold to blue. Her dream made no sense; Prince Arthur had no reason to have his manservant burned on a pyre. That fate was reserved for those who practiced magic in Camelot and Merlin was no sorcerer. He was the prince’s loyal servant and the Court Physician’s ward and apprentice, nothing more. Unless he would foolishly and heroically take the blame for someone else, the way he had done when he offered to give up his life for Gwen.

Back then, Morgana’s own maidservant had nearly been sent to the flames for the crime of having a father who recovered from an illness. It had been absurd and terrifying that a young woman who had worked in the palace for years serving the king’s daughter without one hint of impropriety would be accused of sorcery simply on the grounds that the girl’s father was strong enough or lucky enough to fight off a disease.

But then, that kind of thing happened all the time under Morgana’s father’s rule. King Uther Pendragon lost all sense of reason and judgement when he believed magic was involved. But Arthur, her brother Arthur, was not like that. Why then had she seen him consign his manservant to the pyre?

Was it because of her? Was it possible that Merlin would try to save her from the witchfinder the way he had once tried to take Gwen’s place in the flames? That made no sense, either. She considered him a friend despite the vast difference in their stations but that would hardly prompt him to die for her the way his love for Gwen had prompted him to nearly sacrifice himself. No one had ever loved Morgana that much. Lust and greed were the only emotions she saw in the faces that gazed at the king’s daughter.

Perhaps it had been merely a nightmare after all, her fears for herself twisted with some casual event of the day in the way dreams often did. Morgana slowly pushed back the bedclothes and slid her legs over the side, but she paused before getting to her feet. Her eyelids were heavy and she felt as though she had no strength to dress, let alone leave her room. The food on the tray Gwen had brought, freshly-baked pastries along with fruit and a pitcher of wine, warm and sweetened with honey, did nothing to stir Morgana’s appetite.

“May lady, do you need assistance to rise?”

Gwen had promptly come to her side when Morgana sat up. She shook her head and forced herself to her feet.

“Are you hungry, my lady?”

“No, thank you, Gwen. Please choose a dress for me.”

The maid nodded and went back to preparing Morgana’s clothing.

Morgana moved to her window, blinking a few times at the brightness of the day’s sunshine. The sky was a bright, empty blue; the air was still and warm already with a warning of the heavy heat to come. Morgana looked down at the palace courtyard below her window.

Prince Arthur strode across the smooth cobblestones, his habitual chain mail and the red cloak embroidered with a gold dragon marking him as a knight, the royal brooch clasping the cape under his chin and the silver buckle of his belt marking him as heir to his father’s throne. One step behind him as ever was his manservant, a red cloth tied around his skinny neck, his blue tunic belted with a length of rope under his coarse brown jacket.

The pictures flashed in front of her eyes: Arthur’s cold nod, Aredian’s flaming torch, Merlin screaming in the flames. Morgana’s hands clasped the sill of her window, nails scraping against the stone, then she turned and raced toward the door of her bedchamber.

“Morgana!”

The maid’s shout stopped her wild flight. Morgana lifted a shaking hand to her head, realized her hair was still loose and unbrushed, and looked down at the thin sleeping shift tied with green ribbons.

“Gwen, I must dress. Please hurry.”

Eyes wide, the maid unquestioningly assisted her lady to exchange her nightdress for a proper gown and began to dress her hair.

“Just a simple braid, Gwen,” Morgana said impatiently.

Obediently, the maid plaited the princess’s long, dark hair and stepped back.

Though she wanted to run, Morgana forced herself to appear calm as she got to her feet and walked quickly to the door of her chamber.

“My lady, don’t you wish to eat?”

“No.” Morgana heard the curtness in her own voice and twisted the corners of her mouth up in what she hoped resembled a smile. “I find I am not hungry right now. Just leave it and I will have a bite later.”

Ignoring the concern that shadowed Gwen’s eyes, Morgana turned and left, her gait measured despite the urge to run.

Morgana waited in an alcove. Merlin assisted his guardian, the Court Physician, on his morning rounds. Typically he and Gaius called on deaf, old Lady Elaine after attending to the king which meant they passed through this corridor at about this time. The heat of the day crept through the stone corridors and the air hung unmoving. Morgana felt dampness stain the gown under her arms and below her breasts. A trickle of sweat ran down her back. Her heart continued to beat faster than its normal pace.

Finally she heard the physician’s shuffling steps followed by the light footfalls of worn, brown boots and the rattle of a medicine bag of foul-smelling remedies. The old man shambled past and then Morgana’s hand darted out from the alcove to close around the boy’s skinny wrist under his blue tunic and brown jacket. The rough material of the jacket snagged against Morgana’s fingers. She pulled and Merlin turned to face her in the alcove while the physician continued on his way.

Merlin’s blue eyes under his untidy mop of dark hair were startled. “My lady?”

Now that the moment had finally arrived, the words rushed up and choked her. Her hand squeezed the wrist she still held and a buried part of her mind was conscious that her grip might actually be hurting him.

“Merlin, the witchfinder, burning, fire.” Her voice was high-pitched and too loud.

He gave her a wary look and glanced down at the hold she had on his arm.

She forced herself to speak softly. “Merlin, please listen, you have to believe what I tell you. I had a dream, not just a dream, a dream of the future, and I saw Arthur order your execution. I saw him order the witchfinder to light your pyre and you were burning, you were dying. Please, you have to believe me.”

His eyes fixed on hers then, the wary look replaced by a piercing blue gaze that seemed to see right through her into her nightmare. Then he pulled his arm away from her, turned, and strode away down the corridor.

***

She watched him after that. She noticed how his eyes fixed on her as she passed in a corridor, his brow wrinkled. She saw how he distanced himself slightly from the prince, how he regarded each action, each word, of his master as though weighing them. When Arthur made some cutting remark or slapped him, Merlin’s good-natured smile disappeared as soon as the prince looked away and the manservant stared as though seeing Arthur for the first time.

The next time the dream haunted her, she did not hide her exhausted, red-rimmed eyes from her maid.

“My lady, please allow me to request a stronger sleeping remedy for you.”

“Yes, Gwen,” Morgana said. “Ask Merlin to deliver it to me before bed.”

When Merlin knocked on her door that evening, Gwen admitted him and gestured silently toward Morgana who sat at her dressing table, watching them in her mirror of polished silver. He approached slowly, his eyes fixed on hers in the mirror.

She turned to face him and held out her hand for the remedy clutched in his long, thin fingers. She spoke quietly so Gwen would not overhear. “I had the same dream again: Arthur, the witchfinder, you burning in the pyre. You must beware, Merlin.”

His blue eyes held hers as he gave a slight nod. Then he turned and left.

***

The sleeping remedy did not help. She knew it would not, it never did. Some dreams could not be stopped. She lay in her bed staring up at the white canopy though all she saw were images from her nightmare. Beyond her window it was dark and moonless. A dog howled, a man shouted a curse, the dog whimpered and was silent.

In the quiet of the night, a knock sounded on her chamber door. Morgana frowned. No one had reason to be at her door at such an hour when she was alone in bed. The knock came again. Morgana pushed back the bedclothes and got to her feet, slipping a silk robe over her nightdress. She opened her door a crack and peered into the torch-lit hallway.

Merlin stood there, red cloth knotted around his skinny neck, still wearing his brown jacket and blue tunic as though he had not yet gone to bed that night. She swung the door open further and ushered him quickly inside, glancing up and down the corridor to ensure no one had seen. Then she shut the door tightly and turned to face him, black brows arched.

His face was paler than usual, his blue eyes haunted when he looked up from the floor and searched her face. She went to the small table in her dining chamber and poured a goblet of wine. She offered it to him but he only shook his head.

“Your dream, are you sure Arthur is the one that …”

He did not finish the sentence but she answered anyway. “Yes, I am. I don’t know why or what happened, I only see the execution.” Wine, red and sticky, dripped onto her fingers and she realized her hand was shaking. She set the goblet down. “Merlin, if it’s because of me, if you burn because of my magic, please, don’t.” She met his eyes and the cool determination in them surprised her.

Without taking his gaze from her face, Merlin cupped his hands and lifted them to his mouth. He whispered a word and she could have sworn she saw his eyes flash gold, then he stretched a closed fist toward her. Slowly, slowly he uncurled his fingers. On his palm was a small flame, burning without touching his flesh. A flame he had created with magic. The sudden realization was both a shock and a relief.

She was not alone. She was not the only one in this citadel who spent her days hiding her thoughts, burying part of herself, thinking about which method of execution would be least painful when she was caught and sentenced to die. Laughter bubbled up, spilling out of her like a cup overflowing, and she felt as though her joy was filling the room.

The seriousness faded from his expression and he smiled back. She stepped closer and took his right hand in her left while her other hand passed through the flame hovering over his palm. She felt the heat but it did not burn her.

Then the flame melted away and he turned his palm over to grip her left hand tightly in his. “You’re not alone,” he said. “I know exactly how you feel.”

The words warmed her heart as much as the tiny flame had warmed her fingers. She lifted her right hand and brushed his cheek, the faint stubble snagging her skin the same way the coarse fabric of his coat had. Then her fingertips touched his soft lips.

He bent down and she reached up to press her mouth to his.

***

“Close your eyes. Concentrate,” he said, so she did.

Morgana squeezed her eyes shut, took several deep breaths, and tried one more time. She stretched out her hand, probing inside herself for the magic that, annoyingly, rushed out of her when she least wanted but stubbornly refused to surface when she called for it.

“Concentrate on lighting the candle.”

The sound of his voice was sweet, so close behind her that his breath stirred the hair beside her right ear.

“ _Byrne_ ,” she whispered.

A tingle went through her and her eyes flew open to see a spark of flame touch the candle’s wick. The tip of the wick glowed for a moment, then brightened to a small flame.

“I did it!”

The flame was reflected dully from the damp walls of the catacombs and lit the sandy ground in which they had stuck candles. The grey stone was black where moisture bled down the rock.

“I knew you could.” Merlin smiled at her.

Despite the coolness of the tunnels she felt warmth rush through her.

“Now try the next one.”

Morgana closed her eyes once more and reached out a hand. The tingle came more quickly and easily this time, and another wick sprang to life.

“Very good,” he said in her ear.

A shiver went through her, settling in the pit of her stomach. Heat uncoiled deep inside along with the magic she was only beginning to be fully aware of. For a third time she incanted the spell and another candle lit. All three glowed brightly, illuminating the stone archway which curved over their heads and the pale sand which covered the floor and stuck to their clothes where they sat.

“ _Hoppaþ nu swilce swá lieg fleogan_ ,” Merlin whispered and all three flames lifted from their wicks, still glowing.

His eyes flashed again and the orange flames turned yellow, then green, then blue, then purple, then red. He gestured and they circled each other while the colours continued to flicker.

For a moment she was mesmerized by the dancing coloured lights, then she looked at him in chagrin. “Every time I master a new skill, I find you can make it ten times better with half the effort.”

At a wave of his hand the flames settled back, each to its own wick.

“You’ll be able to do all of it in time,” he said. “It only takes practice.”

Her brows drew together. “How long did you have to practice to light candles by magic?”

A sheepish look settled on his face. He slanted her a look from the corner of his eye. “I don’t really remember but my mother claims I was two when I started lighting fires just by looking.”

“I’m sorry I asked.”

Red crept up his neck into his cheeks and he stared down at his hands, twisting the end of the rope he used for a belt.

“Merlin.” She waited until he looked up again. “Thank you for teaching me. It feels … wonderful to … to use magic and to … to have someone encourage and help and to just be myself. Do you understand?”

His lips curved up. “Better than anyone.”

***

There was another execution scheduled. Morgana refused to attend, yet from where she stood at the corridor window she could see the spectacle. Although it could not possibly make any difference to the condemned woman, Morgana felt she owed it to her to witness her death.

The woman had been a palace servant, working in the kitchens. Audrey had caught the girl with some kind of talisman that was supposed to reveal who her true love would be. The king had immediately sentenced her to death. She had refused to say who gave her the talisman.

Uther Pendragon stood on the balcony above the square, heavy silver medallion around his neck, black coat with silver buckles and silver thread glittering in the bright afternoon sunshine. His jeweled crown hid the thin spot in his greying dark hair as he lifted his hands and pronounced the words of the sentence.

Prince Arthur was by his side, a royal circlet on his gold hair, his red cape fastened with the royal brooch, frowning down at the girl being forced to kneel beside the chopping block.

The courtyard was packed with onlookers. The noise of dozens of taunts and the smell of the tightly-packed throng of sweaty bodies drifted into the citadel corridor through the window on a slight breeze.

Morgana heard a soft, booted footfall on the stone floor behind her. Under cover of the folds of her skirt, Merlin’s hand clenched hers tightly while he appeared to stand respectfully behind her, head bowed. She knew he could see the girl on the execution block below.

The axe was raised. Morgana shut her eyes and turned her head slightly, her breath drawing in. There was a thud dulled by the soft flesh the sharp blade had cut through to bury itself in the wooden block.

Merlin’s hand squeezed her fingers so tightly she gasped. She opened her eyes to look up at him. His blue eyes stared back at her, bright with moisture, then he turned and hurried away.

***

“How could you? She was only a girl and a loyal servant of yours.” Morgana’s raised voice echoed back from the columns and stone walls of the Council chamber where she stood facing the king.

Prince Arthur opened his mouth as if to interrupt her tirade but a glance at his father’s furious face dissuaded him. He dropped his chin and stood silently next to one of the columns.

“Be quiet, Morgana. I grow weary of your faint-hearted whining.” The king turned his back on her and began to walk away.

His refusal to listen made her even more furious. Recklessly, she hurried to catch him and grabbed hold of the black sleeve of his royal robes.

At her action, Uther spun and raised a hand to grasp her by the throat. He shook her slightly as he pushed her backward. She felt one of the high-backed Council chairs behind her, the king’s chair at the head of the long table pressed against her back, trapping her.

“I am the one who has kept this kingdom safe,” Uther said coldly, “and I will continue to do so despite your childish tantrums.”

For a moment, staring into her father’s grey eyes, Morgana thought he might strangle her. Then his hand was gone from around her neck and he stormed off. Arthur shook his head at her before he followed his father from the room.

Haltingly, Morgana lifted a hand, her long green sleeve hanging nearly to her waist, and touched her throat beneath the silver links of a necklace with green gemstones. A necklace the king had gifted her. For a moment her fist closed on the delicate chain as if she would rip it off, but instead a cold, daring thought clamped around her heart, stilling its wild beating. There was a way she could stop this madness; she only needed a little help to accomplish it.

***

Morgana waited for the right time to share her plan with Merlin. He had remained loyal to his master and to his king despite the doubts she knew were eating at his devotion. It frustrated her to see him jump every time Arthur called, always walking a few steps behind the prince or standing behind his chair, his time taken with a thousand trivial duties the prince saw fit to dump on his head.

Merlin was sensitive to the innocents Uther executed with Arthur’s silent agreement but by the same token he had so far refused to believe the worst of his prince and even looked to find good in his king. He did not truly acknowledge his own danger. She would have to convince him to go along with her.

“No, there must be another way,” he said desperately, his eyes darting around the room they were closeted in alone.

She shook her head. “There is no other way.” She stepped closer to take his face in her hands, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead with her thumb. “Uther must be stopped, and Arthur cannot be allowed to continue his father’s work.”

The blue eyes fixed on her, his forehead creased. His arms went around her waist and she could feel his body trembling.

“Think on what I have said,” she said.

He nodded and pressed her closer for a kiss.

***

For days Morgana held her impatience in check. Merlin watched Arthur closely, evaluating the Prince’s words and actions, without making any move to openly challenge his master. The manservant must have talked to his guardian as well, but the Court Physician had always been loyal to Uther so Gaius would advise his ward against rebellion. It frustrated Morgana, yet she could not carry out her plan alone. She needed an army, or she needed Merlin.

She waited in the alcove again. When the soft boots approached, her hand struck out and grabbed his rough brown jacket, pulling him off balance.

“Have you forgotten the witchfinder, the pyre?” she said in a furious whisper. “Need I remind you that it was your face I saw in the flames, burning while Arthur looked on? How long will you wait until you act?”

Doubt and indecision darkened his face. His mouth opened and closed but no words came out.

Her hand clenched his arm tighter. “You cannot continue to stand by. We must do something, sooner not later.”

His dark brows creased with uncertainty. She threw away the skinny wrist and marched away down the corridor, torchlight shimmering on her white gown with the silver thread and tiny silver beads, conscious of his tortured gaze on her back.

***

It was to be a double execution this time. The pyre was being built in the courtyard. Servants and knights, nobles and guards, gaped in fascination as they passed, though no one dared to be caught staring as the pile of wood grew around two tall poles.

A woman had been found guilty of using sorcery to cure her young son of a crippling injury. The boy had been kicked by a horse and the prognosis was that he would never walk again, if he lived. He was her only child; her husband had been a soldier who died in Camelot’s war against Mercia. The little boy’s miraculous recovery had been noted and now the woman would see the child she cured burn on a pyre beside her.

Morgana had raged at Uther until she was certain her father would lock her in the dungeon and leave her there this time. Arthur had tried to placate her but he refused to speak against the king’s judgement. She slammed the chamber door behind her as she marched from the room where the king and the prince remained to finish their meal, their appetites unaffected by the death sentences to be carried out the next day.

The palace guards did not flinch as Morgana stormed out of the room. She paused in the corridor, trying to decide if she wanted to go to her own chambers or get on a horse and ride as fast as she could as far as she could.

When she looked up she saw Merlin had slipped out of the dining room from the servant’s entrance and was watching her. He gave a tiny nod. A satisfied smile curled her lips.

***

Morgana dismissed her maid saying only that she would prepare herself for bed that night. Then she waited until the busy palace grew as still as it ever did. She wore the gown she had dined in with the king and prince, a red velvet dress in Camelot’s royal colour studded with gems matching the blood-coloured jewels that graced the necklace around her throat. Her dagger was every bit as ornate, its jeweled hilt an echo of the king’s crown. She tucked the dagger into its sheath tied about her waist and swung a red cloak over her shoulders, its hood large enough to shield her face.

Most within the palace were already asleep when she stole into the corridor except the guards who diligently patrolled the wing reserved for the royal family. Even the servants had finished their chores and returned to their rooms to grab a bite of cold supper and a bit of rest. She avoided the guards as she made her way the few steps to the royal chambers.

She waited in an alcove not far from the king’s room where the shadows were not touched by torches set in sconces outside the king’s door.

Even as closely as she was watching, she almost missed seeing him in his brown jacket and pants and worn brown boots when he approached the two guards stationed always at the entrance to the king’s bedchamber. Merlin spoke no word, only his eyes glowed, and both guards were tossed aside like sticks to land unmoving on the stone floor. He nodded at her, then walked away as silently as he had come.

Morgana opened the king’s bedchamber door and slipped inside, swinging the long folds of her red cloak through the entry and shutting the door behind her.

The king lay on his side, eyes shut. His face was more serene in sleep than she ever saw it in his waking hours, yet the lines around his eyes were more pronounced, the scar on his face more white. The greying black hair was tousled from his head having turned repeatedly on the pillow. She wondered if perhaps he did not rest as peacefully as he would have them all believe.

She tipped her head to the side, eyes on her sleeping father. Then she loosed the dagger from its sheath and gripped it with both hands above him before she brought the blade down with all her strength, aiming for the exposed vein in his throat. His eyes flew open as blood spewed across the covers, soaking the blankets and her red cloak and running down the bedposts.

Morgana slipped from the king’s room and pulled the hood of her red cloak up around her face. If Merlin had played his part, the warning bell would soon ring, calling the knights on patrol duty to deal with the threat in the palace courtyard.

Under the shadow of her hood, a tiny smile danced about her lips at the thought of Arthur and the knights facing Merlin. Morgana wished she could see her brother’s face when he realized that the manservant he had mistreated could take him apart with less than a word, a mere wave of the sorcerer’s hand.

A sharp clanging resounded through the halls. A deep sense of satisfaction uncurled inside Morgana along with the release of the fear she had lived with for what seemed a lifetime. She paused at the junction of two corridors to remain out of sight when weapons rattled and booted feet pounded past. Then her soft steps took her back to her own chambers where she must be found when the guards came with the terrible news about her father and brother.

***

The Council had debated and argued for days but in the end they came to the only possible conclusion: with the king and the prince both dead, the crown had to pass to the only living member of the royal family. Ambrosius had died without any heir except his brother, Uther, and Uther had no living relations except his two children; upon the death of his son only his daughter had a right to the throne.

None of Camelot’s nobles could gather enough strength to put forward a claim. Those who wished to succeed Uther were happier to see his daughter on the throne than one of their rivals and the others were content to settle the matter without further bloodshed or civil war. In the end they agreed the king’s daughter would rule and her children after her despite the rumours that implicated her in her father’s murder.

No doubt remained that it was sorcery that had killed Prince Arthur and magic had been used to defeat several knights as well as the king’s guards but no evidence linked Morgana herself to that wizardry. The king had died under an assassin’s dagger but those who dared to whisper that it was by the hand of his daughter disappeared or suffered fatal accidents.

Morgana looked out at the courtiers smiling and bowing when she took her place on the throne at the front of the great hall. She was well aware they would gladly have watched her bend her neck to the executioner’s axe if any one of them had a claim to the crown. She did not smile at the glittering throng with their furs and gems lining their fancy dress, scented water and pomades desperately masking the odours of sweaty bodies under layers of rich clothing. Her eyes scanned the crowd, looking for a tall, thin man with a red neckerchief and blue tunic under his rough brown jacket but there was no sign of Merlin in the room.

***

In a tiny bedchamber within the chambers of the Court Physician, Merlin closed the door to his room, braced it with his arm, and leaned his forehead against the coarse brown material of his sleeve. He remained unmoving while the bells called everyone to gather in the great hall to witness the crowning of their new monarch.

Finally the corridors outside the physician’s chambers grew quiet. Merlin lifted his head to stare at his hands, turning the palms up as though he was not certain whether they belonged to him. Then he pulled the door open and stepped down the few stairs to Gaius’s workroom.

Merlin paused and glanced back over his shoulder at the shelf full of potions and remedies of various colours which emanated the noxious odour of medicine. One small vial was tucked back on the middle shelf, a skull and crossbones warning on the jar.

Slowly, Merlin approached the cupboard. His hand stretched toward the vial, his fingers closed around it, then his eyes studied the neat writing of the label. Finally he tipped the contents into his mouth and swallowed. His hand went to his throat before he fell to the floor.

***

Morgana turned to her left and nodded at the white-bearded man who stood beside her throne wearing a heavy medallion and a maroon cloak trimmed in fur. He began the long ritual, reciting the words of the coronation in his droning voice, while Morgana waited impatiently, sweat crawling down her back in the stuffy heat of the Great Hall. At long last he lifted the jeweled crown and placed it on her head.

“Long live the queen,” Geoffrey of Monmouth said solemnly.

“Long live the queen!” a multitude of voices echoed back.

Liars and fools, eager for her approval when two days ago they had demanded her head. Not one of them understood, not one of them really knew her. She would be desperately lonely among this cheering crowd if not for Merlin; he was the one who had made it possible for her to assume her place here, and he was the one she had done it for. He would be safe now.

Morgana smiled.


End file.
